


Absolution

by dollipop



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Gentle Dom Harry, M/M, S&M, Sub Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23747074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollipop/pseuds/dollipop
Summary: Draco gets some much needed release in this quiet, gentle scene.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 137





	Absolution

It is late afternoon, and the sun shines through the slats on the window, falls gently on a succulent in a pot on a side table. A clock ticks quietly. Somewhere outside, a bird perches and then sings, and in a bedroom off the main room, there is a sigh. Another sigh, and then something deeper, more gutteral, but still gentle. The door is slightly ajar, and through the crack can be seen most of a large bed, on which lays spread-eagle a very pale young man. His wrists are tied to the bedposts with jute rope, and his ankles affixed similarly to the footboard. He is mostly naked, wearing only underwear, and is laying on his stomach. There is a shadow on his milky frame, and going further into the room we can see another man, standing next to the bed, holding a soft leather flogger in one hand. The flogger falls, hits the pale skin, and a moan rises, muffled by the bedding. The body on the bed arches upward, as if to meet the blow, and Harry obliges by landing another one, carefully, always carefully, avoiding the kidneys and other soft bits. Draco's back is starting to redden, and as the flogger falls again, he murmurs something. Harry moves closer to Draco's head, to hear, and Draco repeats: please. He says please. 

"Please what?" Harry asks, smiling.

"Please more," Draco says, a little louder this time. 

Harry knows what he means. The flogger is good to start with, to warm up the skin, but Draco craves something more, and Harry is perfectly happy to oblige. He sets the flogger on a side table, and picks up a riding crop. He wonders if Draco is in the mood for stingy pain or thuddy, deep pain today, and figures he'll try things until he hears that perfect music from his partner, that sound of pleasure mixed with tears. 

He strokes Draco's hair softly, grips the back of his boyfriend's neck for a moment, feeling the taut muscles there. His hand moves up to where Draco's hand grips the sheet, and he squeezes it two times, waits for the response. Draco reciprocates with two squeezes, and Harry knows that it is okay to continue. He lets the crop trail lightly down Draco's back, and he shivers at the touch. A moment later the crop falls hard on the space between shoulder blades, leaves a nice square red mark. Draco gasps, and Harry smiles. They are moving in the right direction. The crop rises and falls, and Harry settles into a rhythm, painting the skin. Soon Draco is writhing under Harry's ministrations, no longer able to stay still. The skin is red and warm to the touch, and Harry rests his hand on Draco's back, enjoying the heat. 

Draco is breathing heavily, moaning, but the dam has not broken. Harry knows what Draco wants. Release. Absolution. With no one else is Draco this unguarded, with no one else does he pant and moan and reveal his desires, his proclivities. And with no one else does Harry admit that he enjoys wielding power, he enjoys playing his boyfriend like a well-tuned instrument. He also enjoys being able to help Draco. He knows, he will never know, everything that Draco went through during the war. His family's rise to power, his own thrust into the spotlight and subsequent failure. The fear, the constant fear. The guilt. Guilt was a tricky one. It stuck around for a long time, past the end of the war, past his family's reunion and assistance in ferreting out Voldemort's supporters. It was a part of Draco now, it was an open wound, and nothing seemed to heal it. For a while Draco tried drinking, tried drugs, nothing worked. Then he saw Harry, at a club, the kind of club he'd never admit to going to. Harry was tying up a beautiful girl, her legs tied like frogs legs, her arms behind her back, and it was art, and Draco felt something in him leap. Harry had always been the boy who lived, and Draco was the boy who survived. He wondered if Harry could teach him how to live. 

Two years later and the two share a small house outside Edinburgh, with two cats, and a lot of what Harry always calls instruments. It's art to him, and it's therapy to Draco, and they move together in the afternoon light like it's a dance. 

Harry puts the crop aside and picks up a cane. It's about as thick as his finger, and whips through the air as Harry tests it beside the bed. Draco gasps in fear, and Harry wonders. The cane is always a gamble. Sometimes Draco is up for it, and sometimes it's too much. But the dam has not broken, and that is the goal. So the cane comes down on Draco's thigh, just below the swell of his ass. Draco cries out, clenches the bedsheet even tighter, and Harry watches in satisfaction as a perfect red line wells up on the skin. He gives his partner a moment to catch his breath, and then lays another one right below it. Now he doesn't wait, and another stripe appears, and then another, and Draco's breathing is ragged. Harry stops for a moment, listens. He rubs Draco's skin, feels the welts beneath his fingers. He soothes the skin, and then without warning cracks another line, this time crossing the ones before. 

And there it is, the dam breaks, and Harry hears sobbing. 

"Do you want me to stop?" Harry asks softly.

Draco shakes his head in the bedding. 

Harry lays another stripe, and then another, until he reaches the soft flesh of the inside of Draco's knees. He'll go no further. He trades the cane for a paddle, lays it on the bed next to the crying boy. He grabs a pillow, taps Draco's butt and when he raises it off the bed, puts a pillow under his hips. Then he picks up the paddle, a thick one, because they've done the sting, and he knows Draco likes thud as well, and bruises, if he can. 

The paddle lands hard and Draco cries out again. He thrashes a bit as Harry rains blows, the smack-thud of the paddle hitting a rhythm. It's an awkward angle, he'd rather have Draco bent over something, but he didn't want to move him now. So he makes do, lowering Draco's briefs to see the angry red skin. Draco cries into the bed, and Harry lets a few more blows land on the bare skin, watching as each thwack elicits a sob. Soon the sobbing is heavy, and Harry asks again.

"Do you want me to stop?"

And this time Draco doesn't answer, just keeps crying. Harry knows what that means. He sets the paddle down on the table, then quickly unties Draco's ankles. His legs curl upwards as Harry unties his hands, and soon he's in the fetal position. Harry sits on the bed next to him, and pulls him into his lap.

"It's okay. Everything is okay. You did great, baby. You made me proud."

The last phrase does him in, and Draco sobs even harder.

Harry strokes his hair, rocking him gently.

After a while, Draco quiets, and Harry looks down to see a peaceful, tear streaked face. He knows Draco hasn't heard that phrase much, especially not after the war. There is nothing to be proud of in war, no matter what side you were on. Harry had long forgiven him his trangressions, but he carried them around. The only time he puts them down is at this altar of pain they create together. 

Harry switches the TV on, turns to something he knows Draco will like, and cuddles him. When he wakes, they'll cook dinner together, drink some wine. And everything will be okay.


End file.
